


Changing Constellations

by mrsmcrearyphilips



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsmcrearyphilips/pseuds/mrsmcrearyphilips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor's feelings for Michael through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Constellations

_think i'm going for a walk now_

_i feel a little unsteady_

_i don't want nobody to follow me_

_'cept maybe you_

_i could make you happy you know_

_if you weren't already_

_i could do a lot of things_

_and i do_

 

Trevor is 30 and he watches the snow fall outside the cramped, cheerfully decorated trailer of the Townleys, his sour mood mismatched with the festive gathering around him. His eyes drift over the joyful faces of Michael and his family and he wonders why he’s even here, pretending like he’s a part of it all. He’s been doing it for years, and it never quite feels right except for when Tracey looks up at him with her pleading eyes asking, “Play tea party with me, Uncle Trevor,” and Jimmy’s grasping at his pant leg burbling “Up, up”. But when Michael looks at him, that brotherly love on his face, the feeling turns to ash in his mouth and he aches at the face that Michael shows to Amanda.

 

Michael’s always called him brother, from the moment they dumped that smoking carcass into the lake, and for a while that suited Trevor just fine. But as time went on, and the longer they spent living together in shitty motel rooms across five different states… it was not brotherhood that he wanted from Michael.

 

Feeling a crushing confinement, Trevor slips out of the trailer, putting a cigarette between his chapped lips with pretense. He stands on the battered porch for a moment, staring up at the brilliant white moon against the darkened grey of the winter night sky, scolding himself for accepting the invitation to spend Christmas with “family.”

 

Trevor is 30 and his whole world is wrapped up in Michael Townley, whose whole world is inside that tiny trailer. He can hear their laughter, can picture Michael picking up Jimmy and smiling while Amanda and Tracey dance and sing along to the radio.

 

He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t go back in.

 

He lights the cigarette and descends the rickety stairs, jogging across the barely-shoveled driveway and onto the shoulder of the road. He keeps walking.

 

_tell you the truth i prefer_

_the worst of you_

_too bad you had to have a better half_

_she's not really my type_

_but i think you two are forever_

_and i hate to say it but_

_you're perfect together_

_so fuck you_

_and your untouchable face_

_and fuck you_

_for existing in the first place_

_and who am i_

_that i should be vying for your touch_

_and who am i_

_i bet you can't even tell me that much_

 

Trevor is 25 and he thinks back to the last job he and Michael pulled, at the bank over in Fallhaven, of the rush of getting the goods and getting out free. He remembers bolting around a darkened corner into an alleyway and hiding inside a trash bin next to Michael, their breathing mingling with the stench of their surroundings, the stifled laughter when they knew they had gotten away clean.

 

Trevor remembers the next day, tying on a bowtie and smoothing his hair in the freshly broken mirror, worrying about upsetting Amanda with his bandaged knuckles. He remembers watching the shards of glass hit the sink, along with a spatter of blood, and feeling the prickling sting of tears in his eyes for the first time in years.

 

He is Michael’s best friend, and always will be. It’s the reason he put on a suit and stood silently next to him as he commited himself to another. It’s the reason he didn’t voice any objections when the indicated time came. Everyone he loves abandons him, so it’s best to keep them in the dark on the subject.

 

He doesn’t hate Amanda, either. She’s funny, tough and way out of Michael’s league. He doesn’t even mind it that she seems to dislike him, but then, he’s never been particularly kind to any woman that Michael’s been fucking. It’s a shame they hadn’t gotten off on better terms. He could imagine them growing old and complaining about Michael’s annoying habits together.

 

Trevor is 25 and he’s lying face down on the bed in a dirty motel room in Las Venturas, three weeks after Michael’s wedding. It’s hot and stuffy, but it’s a welcome change from the winter winds of Ludendorff, and he hopes that the trailing coldness in his heart will melt in the dry heat of the desert.

 

Trevor rolls over, hand groping for the glass pipe on the nightstand, knocking the cheap alarm clock to the floor. He drags his aching body up, sitting against the headboard tiredly, rolling the pipe over in his hand as he realizes he has no crystal left to dull the throb of guilt and anger in his chest.

 

He slides back down, laying heavily against the pillow, his hair tangled and wild. He half-heartedly slips a hand into his briefs, but nothing comes of it, and he snarls, frustrated and lonely, and tired of not being with Michael.

 

_two-thirty in the morning_

_and my gas tank will be empty soon_

_neon sign on the horizon_

_rubbing elbows with the moon_

_a safe haven of sleepless_

_where the deep fryer's always on_

_radio is counting down_

_the top 20 country songs_

_and out on the porch the fly strip is_

_waving like a flag in the wind_

_y'know, i don't look forward_

_to seeing you again_

_you'll look like a photograph of yourself_

_taken from far far away_

_and i won't know what to do_

_and i won't know what to say_

_except fuck you_

_and your untouchable face_

_and fuck you_

_for existing in the first place_

_and who am i_

_that i should be vying for your touch_

_and who am i_

_i bet you can't even tell me that much_

  
  


Trevor is 33 and he’s driving down the interstate, his truck alone on the road in the depth of the night as he drives back to North Yankton. It’s been a whole year since he last saw Michael and Lester, and he wonders if he’ll even fit in with them anymore. He wonders if he should even be making the trip at all. He wonders why it even matters. Michael hasn’t been in touch, and he’s convinced that it was all a lie from the beginning; their brotherhood, their connection. Maybe it was all in his head. His mother always said he was a clingy boy.

 

Brad is asleep in the passenger seat, his chubby face pressed into his shoulder with the surely uncomfortable bend of his neck. Trevor glances over at him with little emotion. Brad’s an alright guy, kind of dumb, but ambitious and eager to please. He’s everything Michael isn’t, and Trevor thinks the disparity will become even more obvious once they’re standing side by side.

 

The sudden blink of the gas indicator catches his attention, and luckily he can see the flicker of a rest stop sign shortly up the road. Gunning it, for no real reason but the thrill of speed, he swerves into the exit lane and skids into a parking space, scaring Brad awake.

 

“Jesus, Trevor,” Brad wipes the drool from his chin. “Not fucking cool.”

 

“Let’s grab some food and gas and a hit of tina and we’ll get back on the road so you can finish your nap,” Trevor snarls, already irritated with Brad in the shadow of his comparison to Michael.

 

They plod silently into the restaurant and order the greasiest meals possible. They light up in the bathroom, safe in the knowledge that no one will be in there at 3am, and Trevor’s back behind the wheel with a full tank and an empty mind, ready to hit the road again.

 

The length of the drive weighs on Trevor soon enough, as a tired old love song fades in and out on the weak radio station, reminding him of Michael and his tired old movies and his tired old taste in music and he growls as he nearly breaks the knob off the face of the radio turning it off.

 

Trevor leans his elbow on the car door and grips his head with clawing fingers, and he wishes he hadn’t promised that he’d be coming back. He wishes he wasn’t the kind of guy who always kept his word. He wishes he was the kind of guy who could lie to himself.

Trevor is 33 and he’s driving toward six more years of being wound around Michael Townley’s finger. He’s angry, and guilty, and tired, and he wants nothing more than to make Michael laugh and piss Lester off and watch Amanda’s face redden in embarrassment at one of his quips about her tits. He doesn’t know if he can do it, and his hand slips from his forehead to the glass pipe tucked into his pocket.

 

Maybe if he’s lucky, Michael will look nothing like he did, and the spell will be broken. Maybe he’s fattened up, maybe he’s going bald, maybe he’s lost that silver tongue and quick wit and Trevor will be free of the soul-crushing devotion he’s been dying with for the past thirteen years.

 

Yeah, and maybe tomorrow he’ll join the clergy.

 

_i see you and i'm so perplexed_

_what was i thinking_

_what will i think of next_

_where can i hide_

_in the back room there's a lamp_

_that hangs over the pool table_

_and when the fan is on it swings_

_gently side to side_

_there's a changing constellation_

_of balls as we are playing_

_i see orion and say nothing_

_the only thing i can think of saying_

_is fuck you_

_and your untouchable face_

_and fuck you_

_for existing in the first place_

_and who am i_

_that i should be vying for your touch_

_and who am i_

_i bet you can't even tell me that much_

 

Trevor is 48, and he’s riding in Michael’s expensive sedan, watching the lights of Los Santos sweep past them like falling stars heading toward oblivion. Nine years, one death and plenty of lovers are between them, and yet it’s all the same as it was back before Amanda and Brad. Trevor wishes it could just be them, alone, on the run again.

 

Michael nearly flattens some hipsters crossing the street. “Jump in front of me again and you’ll REALLY fit into those skinny jeans!” He shouts out the window, chuckling at his own joke. Trevor stares back at him, unamused at the wit of Michael Townley, almost disgusted at how proud of himself he always is, with no reason to be.

 

“What?” Michael asks, pulling into a parking space out in front of Singleton’s.

 

“Nothing,” Trevor responds, sliding out of the car and not bothering to wait for him.

 

A few hours into a drinking binge and Trevor’s mood hasn’t lifted at all. He and Michael sit in a booth, a few young ladies flirting with him despite his assurances that he’s a happily married man. The cheap chandelier above their heads casts hundreds of tiny stars on Michael’s face, and Trevor is sick of seeing his stupid face as something heaven-sent.

 

Trevor is 48 and he’s tired of loving this lying, manipulating, cheating, pile of garbage in human skin. He wishes he’d fired that flare into the eye of the stocky kid instead of the ranting old man. He wishes that he’d stayed in the south, taking scores with Brad. He wishes he hadn’t left the TV on while he was fucking Ashley.

  
Trevor wishes for the impossible, often, and he is always disappointed. He decides, instead, to enjoy the life he has, the friends he has, and orders another round for the whole table as he puts his arm around the redhead sitting next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Song Lyrics are from "Untouchable Face" by Ani DiFranco.


End file.
